CHAPTER XI.

THE CREED OF A MOTHER-IN-LAW.

In all good faith I do believe That sons-in-law their wives deceive; So, seeing marriage is a snare, My daughter needs her mother’s care; And if this couple young be wise, Their life they’ll let me supervise. For I can show the wife the way To make the servants her obey, Nor fail the husband’s acts to see, And rob him of his midnight key, Improve his faults with frown and snub, Insist he should give up his club; And if he’s an obedient boy, His home will be a place of joy. Thus ruling husband, home, and wife, I will secure a home for life.

“So you have decided upon Eastward Ho?” said Crispin, as Maurice enveloped himself in clouds of smoke.

They were seated in the smoking-room by themselves, for the ladies had long since retired; and Caliphronas, unable to bear the fumes of nicotine, which, he averred, made his eyes sore and his head swim, had just gone off to bed. Thus, left to that sweetest hour of the night which is somewhere about the stroke of twelve P.M., the poet and his host had established themselves in two comfortable arm-chairs, and, each armed with a pipe, were incensing the Muse of Fancy, who is frequently invoked by such worship. But the talk of the two was anything but fanciful, as they were engaged in discussing their projected tour in Levantine waters. Maurice was rather glad Caliphronas retired so early, as he was anxious to have a quiet conversation with Crispin, and what better time or place could he have, than nearly midnight in the smoking-room, with the soothing weed, and the exhilarating whiskey diluted with soda, to stimulate the drowsy brain.

It is wonderful how men at this mystic hour unbosom themselves the one to the other, and tell secrets which they certainly would not reveal in the daytime. Maurice knew this peculiarity of midnight confabulations, and perhaps thought that Crispin would take him into his confidence; but if he did think so he was disappointed, for Crispin kept his own counsel and held his tongue, save indeed to talk generally about things Maurice was well acquainted with.

“So you have decided upon Eastward Ho?” said Crispin for the second time, finding that Maurice did not reply immediately, which negligence was due to the fact that he wished to speak to the poet about Eunice, and was doubtful of the wisdom of such a step. The second time of asking this question, however, aroused him from his musings, and he answered at once.

“Yes. I had a conversation with the Rector this morning, and I have decided to travel abroad for a year or so.”

“Do you mean a general tour of the world, or a special part?”

“A special part. I am going to Greece.”

“Oh! The mainlands or the islands?”

“The latter.”

“In that case, I know where you are going,” said Crispin, carefully shaking the ashes out of his pipe; “your destination is the Island of Melnos.”

“It is,” replied Maurice in some surprise. “Do you know Melnos?”

“Very well. I also know the woman you are going to see.”

“Helena? How do you know that? I have told you nothing about it.”

“No; but Caliphronas mentioned something about your spiritual passion for that picture.”

This was mere guess-work, as Caliphronas had mentioned nothing of the sort; but Crispin was so well aware of the deep game which the Greek was playing, that he had no difficulty in arriving at a fair conclusion concerning his tactics. Maurice was, however, ignorant of Crispin’s knowledge, and at once assumed that Caliphronas had been discussing his passion for this pictured Helena with the poet, perhaps laughing at it, and his pride was up in arms at once.

“Caliphronas has no right to speak to you about my private affairs,” he said angrily. “I intended to tell you myself, but now he has forestalled me. I did not know he was such a gossip.”

“Nor is he. I said he told me, and so he did, indirectly; but if I did not know Caliphronas, Helena, and Melnos, I would still be in the dark concerning your projected journey.”

“Where is this Island of Fantasy?”

Crispin looked up with a quick smile.

“Oh, he told you the name Justinian calls it! The Island of Fantasy in imagination, and Melnos in reality, is situated in the southern portion of the Ægean Sea, beyond Paros, beyond Amorgos, nay, even beyond Anapli. As a matter of fact, it is a little-known island, hidden, to speak exactly, in the Cretan Sea, between Telos and Crete.”

“I thought I was rather good at geography, but I never heard of the Island of Melnos before. Has it anything to do with the Island of Melos?”

“No; that is more to the north. But I do not wonder at your ignorance, as Melnos is known only to the sailors and shepherds who are thoroughly acquainted with that portion of the Archipelago.”

“What kind of an island is it?”

“A mountain—a volcanic mountain, extinct of course for the present, though I would not be surprised if it blew up one day and sent Justinian flying in the air with all his subjects.”

“Is this Justinian a king, that you talk about his subjects?”

“Well, a kind of minor king, such as Odysseus might have been. I know him very well.”

“And Helena?”

“Is his daughter.”

“His daughter!” repeated Maurice gravely. “Is she as beautiful as this portrait shows her to be?”

“I should say more so,” replied Crispin, taking the photograph. “Here you only get absolute stillness; the great charm of Helena lies in the changeful expression of her face, and in her bright manner. Yes, she is altogether charming, and I do not wonder you have fallen in love with her face, even though this photograph fails to do justice to the original.”

In spite of his passion for Helena, which should have made him delight in these praises of her beauty, Maurice did not pay much attention to Crispin’s speech, as he was thinking deeply, and the current of his thoughts was indicated by his next remark.

“Crispin, you said Caliphronas was merely a chance acquaintance you met at Athens; but, as far as I can judge from the hints you drop, I believe you know him very well.”

“That is the real truth,” replied Crispin, without flinching. “I did meet this Greek at Athens, but I knew him before that—in Melnos. Oh, I can tell you many things which would astonish you, but I cannot do so yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have strong reasons for such reticence,” said the poet coldly; “either trust me in all or not at all. This journey you are undertaking means more than you think, but I will not fail you, and as long as I am by your side you will take no hurt.”

“Are we in the Middle Ages? Is Caliphronas a freebooter, that you talk as if I were in danger?”

“I will explain all some day, and you will be rather astonished at my story.”

“I suppose there is nothing wrong in your story?”

“No. When I tell all about myself and my past life, I think it will satisfy not only you—but Mrs. Dengelton.”

“It is on her account that I made that rather rude remark, for, unless you can prove your name, your position, and your income to be satisfactory, she will never consent to your marriage with Eunice.”

“As to my name,” said Crispin, coloring a little at such plain speaking, “I hope to prove that spotless, my position will be beyond reproach, and my income is larger than your own.”

“You are wealthy, then?”

“I am certainly well off, and I will give you my story at some later date, but at present I will answer no more of your questions.”

“And Mrs. Dengelton?”

“I am going to speak to her to-morrow morning, so as to put things right before I leave England. Oh, I am not afraid of being absent. Eunice loves me, and will be true, while as to her mother, I can win that lady on to my side, and will do so to-morrow.”

“You are an enigma, Crispin.”

“I am; but, as I said before, I can explain myself to your satisfaction, and intend doing so when I consider it wise. But you must trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“I am afraid you ask too many questions for absolute trust,” said the poet dryly, relighting his pipe.

“I will ask you no more—save one.”

“Well?”

“Is Caliphronas to be trusted?”

“As long as I am with you, yes.”

“Ah, you have some power over him?”

“Now you are asking questions again.”

“I beg your pardon; but do tell me about Caliphronas!”

Crispin paused for a moment, as if to consider how he would reply to this remark.

“Caliphronas,” he said at length slowly, “is a man who is a slave to his own vices, and gratifies himself at all costs. He lets no one stand in the way of such self-gratification; but whether you are an obstacle or not remains to be seen. At all events, you have elected to trust me, mysterious as I am, and I promise you on my word of honor that you shall have no reason to regret that trust. I foresee difficulties ahead, but these you need not be afraid of as long as I am by your side. You will leave Roylands with me, and you will return with me, and I give you my word you will not be a bit the worst for your journey, nay, I hope you will be the better.”

“One would think we were going to Timbuctoo, the way you talk,” said Maurice crossly. “You have no idea how these enigmatic speeches pique my curiosity.”

“Well, such curiosity I will gratify—shortly.”

“But”—

“You said you would trust me, and ask no more questions.”

“I do trust you, and I will not.”

Certainly he could not complain of a lack of interest in life now: this mysterious woman Helena, these equally mysterious individuals, Crispin and Caliphronas,—all three riddles. Surely the son of Laius was never so bothered by enigmas as was this young country squire. However, it added new zest to the wine of life, and gave him something to look forward to, so on the whole Maurice was enjoying himself.

“By the way,” said Crispin lazily, after a pause, “how are you going to Melnos?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly. Go by train to Venice, I suppose, and take an Austrian Lloyd steamer from there, or leave Marseilles by the French packet which goes to Athens. Once at the Piræus, and there won’t be much difficulty in exploring the Archipelago in search of your Island of Fantasy. To tell you the truth, however, as I only made up my mind this morning, I have not yet looked up routes, steamers, and all that sort of thing, but intend to go to town next week and find out all about them.”

“There will be no need,” said Crispin quietly; “you can come to Greece in my yacht.”

“Your yacht! Why, I did not know you had one.”

“I know you didn’t. Because I am a poet, you necessarily think I am poor, which is a mistake. I am sufficiently well off to keep a hundred and fifty ton steam yacht, which is at present lying at Southampton, ready to start when I wish. A poet and a yacht sound incongruous, I admit; and I suppose I am the first rhyme-stringer who ever possessed such an article, unless you except Shelley’s boat partnership with Trelawny. But that was a small boat; my craft is a genuine steam yacht, and in it I explore unknown seas. You look astonished.”

“I am astonished. You are a poet-millionnaire.”

“Not quite as wealthy as that, and I need hardly tell you I did not pay for the yacht out of my poems. But, of course, you will come with me to Greece in The Eunice.”

“Eunice?”

“Yes; she was called The Aphrodite, but I rechristened her The Eunice out of compliment to you know whom.”

“Have you any more surprises in store?”

“Plenty,” replied Crispin, rising with a yawn; “but this one is quite enough to keep you awake for a night. Oh dear, I am so sleepy!”

“Wait a minute. Does Caliphronas know you are a yacht-owner?”

“No; I expect he will be surprised and confoundedly jealous.”

“Jealous! Why?”

“Because he thinks all the good things of this life should go his way. But you have not yet given me your answer.”

“Oh, I will come by all means.”

“And so will our mutual friend, the Greek. What a happy family we will be! Well, good-night. I wish Eunice was coming in her namesake.”

“And Mrs. Dengelton,” said Maurice mischievously, lighting his candle.

“No; in my wildest dreams I never wished that. She would want to be captain of the ship. However, I am going to astonish my future mother-in-law to-morrow; so I must take a good night’s rest, and husband my strength for the encounter. Good-night, once more.”

“Good-night, Crispin.”

They both retired to their respective rooms, and Maurice fell asleep wondering who Crispin was, from what source he derived wealth enough to keep a yacht, and what connection he had with Caliphronas. All these things mixed together in his drowsy brain until the real world faded away, and he dreamed he was at Melnos, trying, like another Paris, to carry off Helena, while Caliphronas, in the guise of Menelaus, prevented such elopement.

Next day the brilliant sun had disappeared, and there was a gray veil of clouds drawn across the sky, which neutralized the brilliant tints of the summer’s luxuriance of foliage and flowers. Caliphronas, ever impressionable to atmospheric changes, shivered at the dreary look which now spread over the earth, and it needed all his animal spirits to sustain his normal condition of careless joy. Even then he lacked his ordinary exuberance of life, and it appeared as if a great portion of his vitality disappeared with the sun.

“St. Theodore!” he said to Mrs. Dengelton, as they looked out of the window at the gray landscape; “do you often have this weather here?”

“No, not often,” she replied, in a tone of regret; “I wish we did.”

“What! this dulness, this melancholy, this want of color!”

“Why, my dear Count, it is a most beautiful day!” cried the lady, with great vivacity; “what have you to complain of?”

“Complain of?” The Greek’s face was a study as he repeated her words, and he stared at her in surprise. “Why, I complain of this want of sunlight; it is not like yesterday, which was passable.”

“Passable!” echoed Mrs. Dengelton, surprised in her turn. “Why, Count, since you have come to Roylands, the weather has been simply perfection. How long have you been in England?”

“Two months.”

“Then you must have had this lovely weather all along. You are an exceptionally lucky man, Count Constantine, for you have seen England at her best.”

“Why, have you worse days than this?” asked Caliphronas, with a shudder.

“Infinitely worse,” said Eunice, who at this moment joined them with Crispin: “fog, snow, rain, hail, mist—oh, you don’t know the capabilities of the English climate!”

“I am glad I am going away,” observed Caliphronas, with a sigh of relief; “this place would kill me. Gray skies, small cultivated landscapes, ugly cities, sad-looking men and women. Oh, great saints! what do you know of life or pleasure?”

“I assure you, my dear Count,” began Mrs. Dengelton sweetly, “that in the season”—

“What is the season?”

“The London season, which begins in May.”

“Oh, that is what I have seen. Up all night, tired all day, crowded rooms, unhealthy dinners, plenty of talk about nothing, and no rest—is that what you call the season? is that what you term life? St. Theodore! let me go back to Greece, there at least I can live.”

“But Greece is not like London,” said Crispin, with the intention of provoking the Greek.

“No, thank the saints, it is not, as you know well, Mr. Crispin; there, at least, are fresh air, laughing seas, wide plains, lofty mountains—one can breathe there—one can live and delight in living, but here—oh, pardon me, I cannot talk of it. I must go to Mr. Maurice for the Endymion, and I am glad I leave your dull grayness soon.”

When Caliphronas with this parting shot had vanished, Mrs. Dengelton turned to Crispin with a pitying smile.

“What an impulsive creature, is he not, Mr. Crispin? To talk about such barbaric lands, and call existence there life! Ah, he does not know what enjoyment is.”

“I think he does in his own way,” replied Crispin dryly, thinking of the difference between the free, open-air existence of the one, and the narrow, petty life of the other.

“Well, of course, you know a blind man never misses color because he does not know what he loses,” said the lady apologetically. “That poor dear Count is in exactly the same plight. Eunice, my dear, I wish you would go and write that letter to Lady Danvers at once. I want it to catch the noonday post. We go to Lady Danvers when we leave here,” she added, as Eunice left the room. “For my part, I would have been glad to stay here till the autumn, but dear Maurice has been ordered abroad for his health.”

“Yes, I know he is going,” said Crispin coolly; “he is coming with me.”

“Coming with you?” repeated Mrs. Dengelton, indignantly, wondering at the presumption of this, as she thought, poor poet.

“Yes,” replied Crispin equably, as he prepared to startle the lady; “he is going to the East in my yacht.”

“Your yacht!” gasped Mrs. Dengelton, in the same tones in which she would have said, “Your throne!” “I did not know you—you”—

“Were rich enough to possess one,” said Crispin dryly, seeing the lady hesitated. “Oh, I have had a yacht for many years. I hope you and Miss Dengelton will do me the favor of coming a cruise in her some day.”

“Oh, I should be delighted!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, with a shudder, for she was a very bad sailor; “but does it not take a great deal of money to keep up such an expensive luxury?”

“A great deal,” assented the poet, suppressing a smile as he saw the dexterous way in which Mrs. Dengelton was trying to find out the extent of his income; “but, fortunately, I can afford it.”

“How lucky you are!” sighed the lady, now adopting a more polite tone towards this wealthy young man. “Ah, it is a splendid thing to be rich. My late husband was of good birth, but poor, and he did not leave me very well off. However, I have a sufficiently good income to live comfortably, and of course my dear daughter for a companion.”

“What will you do when Miss Dengelton marries?”

“Oh, I will live with her still. You see, young wives are inexperienced, and I could take all that sort of thing on my shoulders.”

Crispin shuddered, for the prospect of living under the same roof with this lady was anything but an inviting one.

“Of course, I do not mind speaking freely to you, dear Mr. Crispin,” pursued Mrs. Dengelton, determined to crush all thoughts Crispin might have regarding Eunice, “because you are such a friend of dear Maurice. You know I wish him to marry his cousin, it would be a perfect match.”

“Would it?” said Crispin grimly.

“Yes; it would keep the property in the family,” said Mrs. Dengelton, who had arrived at this remarkable conclusion by some means known only to herself; “and then, of course, this would be my home, and I could live here with my dear children. You see, I speak openly to you, because I know you would like to see dear Maurice happily married.”

“I would indeed, Mrs. Dengelton, but not to your daughter.”

“Indeed, Mr. Crispin! and why not?”

“Because I want to marry her myself.”

“Mr. Crispin!”

If a bombshell had dropped through the roof, Mrs. Dengelton could not have been more astonished. She half guessed that this audacious poet admired Eunice, but to speak thus so boldly, and after she had given her views as to the future settlement of her daughter in matrimony—it was too horrible! Who was this man? Nobody knew. He had not even two names like respectable people, and to propose to bestow the only one he possessed on her daughter, was too much for Mrs. Dengelton’s powers of endurance. She was actually dumb with astonishment, and those who had once heard this lady’s tongue could have seen from that alone how she was thunderstruck. For a minute she gazed at Crispin with horror-struck eyes, but as he did not turn into stone before that Medusa gaze, or even have the grace to blush, Mrs. Dengelton recovered her powers of speech with a weak laugh.

“Oh, of course you are jesting!”

“I am not jesting. I wish to marry your daughter.”

“Impossible!”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Oh, because—because”—Mrs. Dengelton could not really bring herself to give the real reasons, so fenced dexterously,—“Because you see, I wish her to marry her cousin, and keep the property in the family.”

“The property will remain in the family without such a marriage,” said Crispin provokingly; “and as for your daughter, she does not love Maurice.”

“Not love Maurice!” screamed Mrs. Dengelton wrathfully.

“No, she loves me.”

“Loves you!” gasped the good lady faintly, feeling for her smelling-salts. “Oh, this is some horrible dream!”

“By no means,” replied Crispin quietly; “I really do not see why you should make such an uncomplimentary remark. I love your daughter, and I wish to marry her. Is there anything extraordinary in that?”

“Eunice could marry any one.”

“No doubt, but she will not. I am the only man she will marry.”

“Indeed! You forget her mother’s consent is necessary.”

“At present, yes, because she is under age—but afterwards”—

“Eunice Dengelton will obey me all her life,” said the lady furiously; “and I will never, never consent to her marriage with you, sir!”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not know who you are,” retorted Mrs. Dengelton tartly.

“I will satisfy you on that point before the marriage.”

“Then I do not know if you can support a wife.”

“If I can support a yacht, I can certainly support a wife,” said Crispin ironically; “but if you want me to be exact as to figures, my income is twelve thousand a year.”

“Twelve thousand a year!” gasped Mrs. Dengelton in amazement; “why, you are richer than Maurice!”

“Yes, twice as rich. Is there any other question you would like to ask?”

“Well, I would like to know about your parents.”

“I have no parents. I am an orphan.”

“And where do you come from, Mr. Crispin?”

“From the East”

“Heavens!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, as a dreadful thought struck her; “you are not a Hindoo, or a negro, or a Hottentot?”

“Well, I am certainly dark,” replied the poet, laughing, “but I am, as it happens, a pure-blooded Englishman. But come now, Mrs. Dengelton, I have answered your questions, so in common fairness you must answer mine. Will you let me marry your daughter?”

“I—I—really I don’t know what to say,” said Mrs. Dengelton, unwilling to let the chance of such a wealthy match slip, and yet doubtful as to the position of the suitor. “I must think it over. Tell me who you are.”

“Not now. I will satisfy you fully concerning my family when I return from Greece.”

“Ah! am I right in saying you are going to the East to see your relatives about this marriage?” said Mrs. Dengelton archly.

“Partly right. I am going as much on your nephew’s account as my own.”

“And what is _he_ going for?”

“That I cannot tell you, Mrs. Dengelton,” replied Crispin mendaciously, “you must ask him that yourself. But as to this marriage”—

“I cannot give you an answer now—really I cannot.”

“Will you give me an answer when I return from the East?”

“When will you return?”

“In three months.”

“Yes, I will give you an answer then,” said Mrs. Dengelton glibly, having quite determined to throw Crispin over, should she meet with a more desirable match for her daughter. Crispin guessed this double dealing, and at once met the feminine plot by a masculine counterplot.

“Mrs. Dengelton,” he said solemnly, “I love your daughter, and she loves me. When I return in three months from the East, I will satisfy you on all points you desire to know. If those questions you ask are answered to your complete satisfaction, will you agree to our marriage?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Dengelton, all the volubility frightened out of her, “I will.”

“Then give me your word that during my absence you will not try to induce your daughter to marry any one else.”

“I hardly think it is necessary to ask that,” said the lady, with dignity, though in her heart of hearts she knew it was very necessary, as also did Crispin, who still pressed his request.

“Perhaps it is not necessary; still I would like your word for it that such a thing will not occur.”

“Well, well, I promise,” remarked Mrs. Dengelton peevishly, rising to her feet. “What a pertinacious man you are, Mr. Crispin! Mind, I will not consent to this marriage unless I am thoroughly satisfied about your position, income, and family.”

“I will satisfy you on all those points,” rejoined Crispin, with a bow, as he held the door open for her to pass through.

“I feel quite upset,” said the good lady, as she hastily departed. “I am sure I don’t know what Maurice will say.”

“I do,” thought Crispin, as he closed the door; “he will be delighted. I talk very confidently, but I am doubtful. Position—yes, that is all right, I am a poet; money—well, she can hardly complain of twelve thousand a year, safely invested; family—ah, that is the difficulty! I wonder if I can get the truth out of Justinian, he alone knows. I cannot marry with only one name, but I will have two before I return from Melnos, or else”—

He paused, and struck his fist hard against his open hand.

“I will force Justinian to tell me,” he muttered between his clinched teeth. “I also hold cards in this game he is playing, and even with him and Caliphronas as adversaries I will win. Maurice Roylands is Justinian’s stake, Helena is the stake of Caliphronas, as he chooses to call himself, but Eunice is mine, and with such a prize to gain I am desperate.”

His eyes fell on an open volume of Thomas à Kempis, which Mrs. Dengelton, in strange contrast to her usual worldliness, was fond of reading, and he saw the following sentence:—

“Love desires to be aloft, and will not be kept back by anything low and mean.”

“I accept the omen,” he said, closing the book slowly. “I desire Eunice, and no lowness or meanness of Justinian and Andros will keep me back. I accept the omen.”